Frozen
by Starsky's Strut
Summary: Early Days Story -Post Academy- and just before they start their new lives as rookie cops in Bay City. The guys take a break to go on an ice fishing trip in Minnesota. Will Starsky survive being frozen? Slightly off-canon. Story complete!
1. Chapter 1

**Disclaimer: **All usual disclaimers apply, I don't own the rights, I don't get money, and this is for entertainment only. Please excuse any errors; they are entirely mine.

Thanks as always to the Usual Suspects: Pony, Kreek, Eli and Wuemsel. *grin* I couldn't -and wouldn't- do it without you.

This one is for Krissy. It was terrific meeting you at Cabrillo Con 2009!

_"On ne voit bien qu'avec le cœur. L'essentiel est invisible pour les yeux."_ - Antoine de Saint-Exupéry

**Frozen****  
****by Starsky's Strut**

Shifting around on a plastic five-gallon bucket, David Starsky shivered minutely and adjusted the coat collar up on his neck. He pulled at his thick, woolen knit cap, trying to cover the one-inch gap between his heavy jacket and the hat, silently fuming when the collar couldn't be tugged any higher, nor the hat any lower, leaving that single—and annoying—gap to freeze.

The chill air nipped at the rest of his body, despite his heavy clothes. He took another look at his surroundings. The frozen lake was clear of the knee-deep snow that blanketed the surrounding land. Starsky couldn't think of a sadder looking place. It appeared to be dead. The snow was a cold, white death shroud covering a land long devoid of warmth. The trees lining the shore looked like rigor mortis-stiffened arms reaching out from under that casing. Not another soul was around. The whole place brought to mind myriad depressing thoughts, which Starsky quickly snuffed out.

Mentally grumbling at his morbid turn of thought, he put his hands to his face and blew hot breath onto his mittened fingers. A thick, white mist rose in a miniature cloud from his mouth. The warmth was far too short-lived. He wiggled his covered fingers to try to warm them a little. Finally giving up on the impossible task, he crossed his arms and tucked them into his armpits—all the while wondering why he was sitting in the middle of nowhere on a pail on a frozen lake in Minnesota.

He looked over at Hutchinson and remembered.

They had met at the academy a short while ago. Their budding friendship had only begun after a very rocky beginning. _Rocky? _Heck, the Rocky Mountains had _nothing _on their first meetings. Putting it bluntly, they had hated each other. _Hate at first sight…._

Slowly, the negative feelings had turned into a grudging respect and then progressed to a few shared laughs at the expense of a couple of instructors they'd determined desperately deserved to be brought down a peg or three. Starsky and his new partner in crime, Hutchinson, had managed to do just that.

He smiled at the memory.

_Their dislike for each other had eased one night when Starsky had jimmied the lock on a car belonging to the self-defense instructor, a man he'd come to seriously dislike due to his being so overzealousness during training that he was willing to injure his students to prove his superior skill and for his sarcastic and condescending manner. Starsky was about to empty a plastic baggie of fresh canine crap under the front seat, when he heard the sound of someone padding quietly up behind him. He stiffened guiltily. _

"_What do you think you're doing?" The tone was quiet and reproachful. _

_He knew that voice. It belonged to the Minnesota Golden Boy, Kenneth Hutchinson. Starsky knew he was going to be in big trouble—just as soon as Hutchinson narked on him. _

"_Nothin'," he snapped defensively, he leaned into the open car door and shook out the contents of the baggie under the driver's seat. There wasn't any point in trying to hide what he was doing from the interloper._

Well, in for a penny, in for a pound._ He shrugged, his task accomplished, and started to close the door._

"_Wait."_

_Starsky turned and looked up at the slightly taller man, fully expecting Mr. Holier Than Thou to ream him out, or turn him in, or both. _

"_I-I've got a deposit to make too." With that, Hutchinson held out and shook a dog-doo-filled baggie of his own. _

_After the taller man made his deposit, they shared a wicked smile—and a good laugh—as they made their way back to their quarters that night. _

They still had rough patches to smooth out. Starsky was beginning to think it could be the start of an interesting relationship, his first since 'Nam. Sure, he still kept tabs on people from before: people he had grown up with and the ones he'd hung out with, even the ones he'd gone to war with. _Oh, correction: "Civil action," not war._ He mentally gritted his teeth and pushed the dark thoughts away.

Suffice it to say, despite his casual and often playful demeanor, Starsky took true friendship very seriously. He had lots of people he hung out with but no one that he could, or would, call a friend. In Vietnam, he'd learned about real friendship and loyalty. His best friend, Jake, had died in his arms, and as the war had progressed, many others had been killed in action. After so many losses, he refused to get that close to anyone again. It was simply too painful when they died.

Starsky shook his head at the memories and wondered all over again why he was here. Hutchinson wasn't a bad sort, really, once you got past all that cool aloofness. The guy had a dry, often wicked, sense of humor, something sorely lacking in Starsky's own life since Vietnam. For such a hot and humid place, it had left him cold, right down to his soul.

He'd never forget the scene that had greeted him and the others as they exited the gate of the army base after being honorably discharged.

_There were chants and shouts, but the sounds weren't welcoming or inviting. Starsky clutched his duffle and pushed to the front of the apprehensive group. Opening the door, he stepped outside. A crowd was there to greet him, people dressed in colorful, loose clothing, with long, unkempt hair. Many of the men sported ratty beards. _

_War protesters. He swallowed hard. This is not the happy homecoming they had expected. _

_The motley crew slowly turned to face him, and Starsky's elation at being discharged evaporated when something wet and smelly hit him in the face. Hateful words began to pelt him, as well as more refuse. _

"_Murdering bastards!" _

"_Go back where you came from! We don't want you here!" _

"_Make love, not war!" _

"_Baby killers!" _

_More rotten fruit hit him. Fixing a stony expression on his face, Starsky scanned the area for his aunt and uncle, certain they'd be nearby. And, in his heart of hearts, he hoped Ma and Nicky had somehow made it too. _

_But they weren't there. No one he knew was waiting for him at the gate, just a throng of hate-filled faces, along with some reporters with cameras, whose presence served to whip the mob into a frenzy. _

_A knot formed in the pit of his stomach, and it grew cold as he realized his family wasn't coming. He pushed his way through the angry crowd and walked a few blocks before flagging down a cab. Once inside, he gave the driver the address of his uncle's house. _

_When he arrived, some small part of him still hoped for something good to happen on this rotten day—maybe some balloons, a cake, anything along that line. Instead, Starsky was greeted with a hug from his aunt Rosie, a firm handshake from his uncle, and nothing else. _

"_What-?" He bit off the question as he swept his hand to encompass a room devoid of the anticipated welcome party. "Where-?" Starsky again cut the rest off, not wanting to show just how much seeing the empty room hurt. _

_Uncle Al blushed and cleared his throat. "We didn't think you'd want a fuss. As for your mom-" He started, stopped and started again. "Well Nicky's been- They couldn't come..." He trailed off lamely as he shook his head and wiped a hand down his weathered face. He cleared his throat uncomfortably. "Your old room is ready, if you want to take a nap or freshen up?"_

"_You didn't come." Starsky let the bitterness infuse his words and show on his face. _

"_We…on the news…. I didn't want to subject your aunt to the protesters. There's been violence taking place at some of them." Uncle Al dropped his gaze. "How bad was it?" _

_Starsky's shoulders drooped as he pointedly wiped at a still-damp stain on his shirt. "Doesn't matter. I'm goin' ta bed." _

_He turned on his heel and went to his room. Slamming the door, threw himself down on the bed and slung an arm over his stinging eyes. The knot that had formed earlier began to twist in on itself. It grew in size, until it collapsed from its own weight, becoming a black hole—a void from which nothing escaped, not even emotions. _

Shifting on the pail once more, Starsky remembered he'd done his best over there, given it his all, and simply done what had been drummed into him since he was a child at his father's knee. He had served his country—done his patriotic duty—but when he'd come back, everyone seemed to hate him and the others for their efforts and sacrifices.

People he'd thought of as his friends—those who had not gone to Vietnam—had turned their collective backs on him. Even his own family hadn't braved the hostile crowds to pick him up. Starsky hadn't expected a hero's welcome, but what he did receive had left him cold. He didn't have any friends who had survived 'Nam.

So, what was the point of having friends? They either turned their backs on you or just died anyway, usually in some stupid, random way. Unwanted, the past intruded again on the present.

_He had ignored the light knocks at his bedroom door. For two days, he stayed at his uncle's house; then, he gathered his meager belongs and left. The whole scene left him cold and numb, and that suited him just fine. An overwhelming feeling of disconnection settled in. He no longer fit with anything or anyone, nor did he want to. Directionless and emotionally numb, he drifted from job to job and even drove a cab for a while. _

_After he had spent a year or so doing menial, dead-end jobs, his uncle pushed a flyer for the police academy at him. Sick of having no real direction in life and without a better plan, Starsky signed up…. _

Now, it was after graduation, and Starsky had a free week before starting his new career as a police officer. Out of the blue, Hutchinson had asked if he'd like to go fishing at his grandfather's cabin. Having nothing better to do, Starsky had said, "Sure," but what Hutchinson had failed to mention was the Minnesota part, the cold part and the ice part.

So, he currently found himself sitting on an upside-down plastic pail in the middle of a small, frozen lake, freezing his backside off. He shivered again. Maybe he should have said no to this fishing trip, but he hadn't wanted to hurt the guy's feelings by turning him down.

Besides, Starsky kind of liked fishing. However, having just tried it, he knew now that he loathed _ice_ fishing. He was from New York and knew damn well how cold it got in the northern states in winter. He had only himself to blame for not factoring that into his decision to come here. He really didn't want to complain to Hutchinson about it, at least not yet. He didn't want the man to think he was a whiner.

Starsky flipped up his coat sleeve and dragged down the top of his mitten for a second to check the time, all the while wondering how much longer he could sit there before he'd have to throw in the towel and head back to the cabin. Still feeling chilled, he shifted around once more before sneaking a look at his companion.

Hutchinson sat coolly on his five-gallon bucket, silently staring at the small, round hole in the ice and seemingly unaffected by the bitter chill in the air. Without looking up, he quietly hissed, "Please don't move around so much; you'll scare the fish."

Starsky blinked and gaped at the man before retorting hotly, "Scare the fish? Scare the fish! Those fish, if they ain't already frozen to death, are under at least a foot of ice and couldn't possibly have heard me." He stomped his cold feet on the ice to make his point.

Hutchinson's head jerked up. "Well, they sure as hell heard that! Just sit still, or we aren't going to have any fish for supper," he hissed.

"Look! Either way we're having fish. We've got a nice big box of fish sticks back at the cabin, and those are all breaded and everything. We just gotta heat 'em up." Starsky worked to keep his tone pleasant. He was a guest, after all.

The taller man took a fortifying breath and slowly exhaled before speaking with great disdain, "Starsky, those are frozen –"

"Well, that's great because so am I!" Starsky carped, not liking Hutchinson's superior tone.

Hutchinson put up his hands in a placating way, clearly not wanting to argue. "Those fish are frozen and have been dead for weeks, months even."

"I heard you the first time. And so what? I don't wanna eat a live fish, and who cares if they're frozen? So, am I, since all I've been doing all morning is sittin' on this plastic pail freezin' my tail off an' watchin' you stare at a hole in the ice. I'm turning into a pelican, here." He deliberately threw in the wrong word, knowing how much it would bother the blond perfectionist.

Hutchinson had a thing about always being right and correcting him. It was one of the things that had started them off on the wrong foot back at the academy. Starsky really didn't care for people who thought they knew everything and, as such, figured they were better than others. He simply couldn't resist needling the other man about it.

Light blue eyes snapped up to meet stormy, dark blue ones. "Mister Starsky, I think you mean _penguin_, not pelican. You know, sometimes I don't know why…. Hey, I've got a bite!"

"Mister Hutchinson, I've got a bite too, only mine's _frost_bite," Starsky groused, upset by the reversion to the use of "Mister" before his name. They had used that word after their first dreadful meeting, calling each other "Mister Starsky" or "Mister Hutchinson" like other people would use swear words.

It irritated him that Hutchinson would resort to using it on him again, conveniently forgetting that he stubbornly refused to shorten Hutchinson's name to the more familiar "Hutch." After their difficult start, Starsky didn't quite feel comfortable enough to do that, nor had he been invited to yet. He remembered what Hutchinson had once told him: "My friends call me Hutch." Starsky figured he wasn't a friend to the man. Hell, he couldn't even bring himself to think of the Minnesota native as anything but Hutchinson.

A shiver forced its way down his spine, turning Starsky's thoughts from his companion to himself. He realized that if he had to sit there much longer, he was going to shatter from the cold. He rapidly rubbed his hands up and down his arms, trying to warm up.

Watching as Hutchinson showed more movement than he had since arriving at the ice-covered lake hours ago, Starsky gritted his teeth to keep them from clacking in the bitterly cold air. "I'm tempted just to walk back to your grandfather's cabin without ya," he groused quietly.

Hutchinson kept his eyes down and hunched his shoulders, the only sign he had given that the intense chill might be affecting him. He gave the ice hole a look of intense concentration that the small circle didn't seem to warrant.

Starsky hoped Hutchinson would think that he was just bickering because he was obstinate. It was the truth…well, part of it. The fact was he was also quite cold. _And bored. Let's not forget bored_. He kept that thought to himself, though.

Hutchinson dropped his gaze for a moment and ran a hand over his lower jaw before raising his eyes. "Look, let me just land this fish, and we'll go, all right? We can fry this puppy up and maybe play some _Monopoly_ or something, oaky?" His tone was conciliatory.

Relieved, Starsky could feel his grumpy expression fade, as a rare smile worked its way across his face. "I like _Monopoly_."

Hutchinson smiled back at him, and the fishing line jiggled harder. The blond concentrated on bringing his catch to the surface. After several minutes of battling the stubborn fish, he finally got it to the hole and pulled it up. The fish was so big, it almost didn't make it through the opening. After a few anxious moments, the large fish was pulled up and out of the water.

"Look at it! It's a beaut!" Pride filled Hutchinson's voice.

"Sure is! It's gonna taste great, and we might even have enough left over for tomorrow." Starsky bounced excitedly. Food had that effect on him. It didn't hurt to know that very soon they'd be heading back to a nice, warm cabin, with a crackling fire and a generator to supply power for a few lights and a 13-inch black-and-white TV. Too bad they had to heat water by using the fireplace; there was nothing like taking a hot shower after getting cold.

The fish—a type Starsky wasn't familiar with—was huge and powerful, as evidenced by the effort Hutchinson was exerting to hold onto the line. His arms quivered with every flip of its powerful tail.

"Whoa! It's a fighter, all right. Get the pliers, and I'll get the hook out."

"Pliers, pliers," Starsky muttered, as he darted to the tackle box and flipped through it for the tool.

"Hurry!"

"I'm comin'." He moved back to his companion's side, feet sliding a bit on the water-slicked ice.

"Careful there," the other man cautioned over his shoulder.

Together, they quickly worked to remove the hook and deal with the slippery, struggling fish. Freed from the hook, the creature flipped its body and jerked out of Hutchinson's hands to flop wildly on the ice.

The two men scrambled for it at the same time and knocked heads. They fell backwards and landed on their butts. Stopping to rub the sore spot on his head, Starsky peered up to see the other man gingerly checking out the same place on his own noggin. First grinning, they snickered and then laughed. The earlier irritation Starsky had felt was forgotten in the shared amusement of the moment.

The humor fled the blond's face as he noticed the fish flopping back toward the opening in the ice. "It's gettin' away!" he yelped and scurried after it on all fours.

Starsky, feeling competitive, made like a penguin, scooting forward on his belly and using his hands and feet to push toward the fish to make a grab for it. His mitten-covered fingers closed around the flailing fish. Though he had never chased a greased pig, he quickly figured it had to be something like trying to hold onto a flopping, wet fish.

It wiggled out of his hands. He slid forward and grabbed for it once more as it slipped into the hole. Reaching down, he caught hold of the tail and hung on.

With a few hard gyrations, the fish dropped back into its wet home, pulling Starsky's arms with it. The freezing water cut through the sleeves of his coat and took his breath away. "Geez!" he hissed, releasing the fish and yanking his arms out of the hole.

Starsky sat back up and smacked his drenched, mitten-covered hands down on the ice, splashing frigid water everywhere. "Dammit. I've just about had it." He peered over the edge and glared down at the dark water below. "I'm tempted to drop a line down there and try catching it again."

A hand dropped firmly onto his shoulder, and he looked up at Hutchinson.

"I don't think you should. You're soaked. We'd better head back to the cabin now; both of us need to get into some dry clothes." Hutchinson gave his shoulder a squeeze.

From the north shoreline came the rattle of tree branches, and seconds later a sharp, cold gust slammed into them.

Starsky shivered and pulled his drenched mittens off; they plopped onto the ice with a wet splat. He took his soaked coat off to get it away from his skin. "That was dumb!" he berated himself as he tugged at his equally drenched shirt sleeves.

A blast of bitterly cold wind whipped across the snow-covered ice, pelting him with drifting white stuff. He shuddered as he turned his back to the wind-driven flurry. When he crossed his arms to tuck his hands into his armpits, the sleeves crackled a little.

"What the hell?" He blinked in stunned amazement; the wet parts of his shirt were already crusting with ice. Startled, he looked at Hutchinson, and their eyes locked.

The blond blinked at the freezing apparel. "W-we'd better go. Now." The words were quiet and calmly spoken, but there was an underlying tinge of urgency to them, betrayed by the slight stutter. "An Alberta clipper is headed in. The weather report was off by hours. I was sure we'd have plenty of time to make a few catches and get back to the cabin before it arrived."

Another gust tugged sharply at their clothes and flipped the five-gallon pails over, sending them rolling in tight, awkward circles on the ice. Their handles hit the frozen ground with hollow thumps.

His back hunched against the freezing wind, Starsky bobbed his head rapidly in agreement and reached for his coat. A quick tug revealed it, too, was in the process of freezing solid.

Hutchinson stepped over and began to unzip his coat. "It's a flash-freeze! Let me help you. We gotta get back to the cabin. Hurry!"

"Hey! What're you doing?" Starsky stepped back, confused by the action.

His companion blinked. "Giving you my coat."

"I can see that. Put it back on before ya catch your death." He stubbornly tugged at his icing jacket.

"Starsky, your coat is soaked and it's in the process of freezing solid. I can't let you walk back to the cabin like that." He shook the proffered garment for emphasis.

"Yes, you can. It's only about a half a mile." Starsky tugged at his coat again, succeeding in pulling it off the ice.

"I know that, but you're only here because I asked you to come. You're my guest and soon to be a Popsicle if we don't get you warmed up. What kind of host would I be if I let that happen?"

Starsky was fighting to keep his teeth from clacking together. He gritted them as he waggled his eyebrows. "One with one less fishing buddy?"

Hutchinson's face fell, and he paled. "That's not even funny." He wrapped his coat around Starsky's shivering shoulders.

As Starsky moved to shrug it off, a gloved index finger was thrust in his face.

"No. Leave it on. L-let's go. The temperature's dropping rapidly; flesh will freeze in minutes in this kind of weather." Hutchinson glared and shook his finger once more.

Starsky batted the annoying digit away. "Dammit, no! And keep that thing outta my face before I break it."

The stubborn finger returned, closer than ever to his nose. "Starsk –" The voice had a stern note to it.

Starsky noticed Hutchinson had shifted around to block the cutting wind with his body, giving him a small measure of relief. It didn't really help, but the thoughtfulness warmed him mentally. It was a fluke. It had to be. Starsky shook his head to clear the notion. "What did you just call me?"

"Starsk," Hutchinson obligingly repeated, moving closer as the wind picked up.

Starsky crinkled his nose and beetled his brow. "I don't think I like that."

The other man rolled his eyes, reached around to put a hand in the middle of Starsky's back, and pushed him gently toward the distant cabin. "Fine. You can tell me how much you don't like it as long as you do it while you're walking."

Not one to be pushed around, Starsky didn't move as he shot a look over his shoulder. "Ya know somethin'? You're bossy."

"Moo," the other man made a cow-like sound. "Get going. It's freezing out here." Hutchinson dipped down and snagged the handle of his small tackle box.

"Really? Probably why they call it 'winter.'" Starsky grabbed the pails and trotted off toward the cabin. "Let's compromise, I'll wear this part of the way; you wear it the other part. We'll trade off, 'kay?"

"S-sure."

"Dammit, you're cold already!" Starsky moved to shrug the coat off his shoulders.

"I'm f-fine. Let's just keep m-moving. We'll warm up some as we g-go." Hutchinson motioned in the direction of the cabin with the tackle box.

"Yeah, right," Starsky grumbled but kept moving. He remembered what someone had once said about wind this cold, something about it being so thin it could pass right through you. In England it might be called a "lazy wind," meaning it didn't want to take the time to go around and would pass directly through you to get to the other side. Either way, it was bone-chilling.

"We gotta g-get to the shore. With the tree line, there should be a little more p-protection from the w-wind."

Starsky nodded in agreement, and they hurried off the lake.

As they hastened through the drifting snow, Starsky could hear the stuff squeaking under the weight of his boots. The sound was a bit like new sneakers on a gymnasium floor. Of course, it was accompanied by the steady castanet clacking of his teeth and Hutchinson's. They both would need dental work when they got back to Bay City.

He also noticed they had identically turned their shoulders to the wind, each ducking his head in the slight shelter to help keep the slashing snow from pelting their knit hat-covered ears and faces. It didn't really help much.

When Starsky inhaled the bitter air, his nostrils stuck together in a most disconcerting fashion. He snuck a quick look toward the distant cabin and could see gusts of snow pushing upward, blowing horizontally from a generally northern direction. They were heading right into the teeth of the wind.

Dropping his head back down into its meager refuge, he could see the footprints they'd made on their way to the lake were filling quickly with the swirling white power. _God, I hate the cold. The only reason I ever go back to New York is to visit Ma and Nicky._ He'd vowed years ago he would never live there again—or anywhere else where it got that wintry. And, after this week, he'd never go ice fishing again either.

He remembered when his mother had told him that growing up in warm Bay City had spoiled him and he was no longer a "real" New Yorker, who could take the cold and shrug it off as a minor inconvenience. Yeah, he was happy to live where it didn't ever get this cold. Ma could give him all the ribbing she wanted if it meant he could stay away from this awful weather.

A furious blast of wind whipped the five-gallon pails and ripped them from his hands. His fingers, now numb, couldn't hold on. He let the buckets go, hearing them bump and bang across the frozen tundra as they were blown away. He stared dumbly after them, and they were quickly lost in the gale-driven flurry—lost in the swirling whiteness. There was no point in trying to go after them. He tucked his cold hands further up into his armpits.

For a brief moment, there was a lull in the wind, and Starsky tilted his head back. It was as if a giant had been blowing the forceful gusts and then stopped to inhale. Looking up and half-expecting to see that giant—despite the mass of driven snow—Starsky glimpsed an amazingly blue sky high above him. The sun was shinning, but the light seemed bitterly cold, as if all warmth had been sucked from it. The blustery weather picked up again, and the blue patch was covered once more by a shroud of white and gray.

After a while, his legs felt leaden and his muscles ached from pulling his feet out of the ever-deepening drifts. On a lighter note, his teeth had finally stopped clacking together. Through aching jaws, Starsky yelled over the sound of the wind, "S-shouldn't we b-be there by now?"

Not hearing a response, he looked back and couldn't see his companion. All he _could_ see was a white wall of streaming snow. He stopped dead in his tracks as fear flashed through him, colder than the wind and snow that buffeted him. He spun a tight circle.

"Hutchinson!" The words were ripped from his lips and quickly drowned by the shrieking fury of the wind. Blinded and disoriented by the whiteout conditions, Starsky took a step first in one direction and then in another, unsure of which way to go.

He turned around and yelled again, "Yo, Hutchinson!"

Where was the guy? What if he'd fallen, gotten hurt, or simply collapsed from hypothermia? Where should he start to look, and which way was the cabin?Starsky's mind ran helter-skelter with possibilities, each more grim than the last.

"Hutchinson!"

TBC


	2. Chapter 2

**Warnings:** Curse words

This chapter is unbeta-ed.

Thanks for taking the time to read and review and for all the words of encouragement. It means a great deal to me. This is not my usual action/adventure story, hope you like the chapter anyway.

**Frozen **  
Chapter 2

A disembodied arm snagged his elbow and Starsky let out a startled yelp.

"Y-you b-bellowed?" The sharp humor was dulled by a cold-induced stutter. Hutchinson had leaned in close to yell in his ear to be heard.

"Th-thought I'd lost you in the sn-snow." His teeth clattered together uncontrollably between each of the words.

"N-not a ch-chance." The other man grinned. "W-we're not too f-far from the c-cabin now."

Hutchinson retained his hold on his arm and for that Starsky was oddly grateful. A short distance later they finally broke from the streaming, howling whiteness onto a slight rise. He could see the little cabin was only couple yards away now. Soon they'd be out of this white hell.

Starsky inhaled sharply only to have his nostrils freeze solidly shut. Shocked, he sucked in some of the bitterly cold air into his lungs which sent him into a spasm of coughs. Hutchinson obligingly patted him firmly on the back. Gasping, Starsky finally got his hacking under control and spit the resulting phlegm onto the ground. It bounced and rolled away. Startled, he shot a look over to at his companion.

The other man blinked and tugged hard on his elbow. "We gotta g-get inside qu-quick!"

"My spit just b-bounced!" Starsky was thunder stuck and he hocked another one, just to have a repeat of the bizarre event. He pointed at the result. "It did it again!"

One blond brow rose slowly in mixture of suppressed perplexed delight "You're easily amused. W-will you come on!" The taller man yanked him firmly towards the cabin.

They pushed their way into the room side by side, and had to use their combined weight to force the door shut. They leaned against it wearily and could feel the wind bumping and bowing the wood ever so slightly against their backs.

"Th-think it'll hold?" Starsky looked at Hutchinson.

"S-sure hope s-so." Hutch spoke through chattering teeth as he rubbed at his upper arms for a moment.

Starsky could see that the blond lashes were caked with droplets of ice. The man's eyes were close to being frozen shut. A mitten covered hand reached up to touch his face. Starsky sharply pulled his head back. "What?"

"You've got ice crystals on your lashes."

"You t-too."

They stood up, away from the door and the wind blasted it open. Starsky quickly slammed it shut and leaned against is as the wind firmly and steadily pushed it. "What're we gonna do about this door?"

Hutchinson trotted off, moving to an alcove to dig through a few drawers located there. He produced a hammer, a few nails and then did something Starsky had only seen in cartoons. He nailed the door shut.

Starsky dumbly blinked a few times. "How'd we g-get b-back out?"

"Th-that's what the claw on the hammer is f-for, d-dummy." Hutchinson said lightly, taking away any sting the words may have otherwise carried. Setting the hammer on the nearby table he reached for the zipper of Starsky's borrowed coat.

Starsky batted his hands away. "What're ya doin'?"

The taller man rolled his eyes. "You need to get that coat off and out of those wet shirts."

"Why?" Starsky couldn't keep a note of stubbornness and suspicion out of his voice.

"You need to warm up quickly and it's cold in here. Go put on something dry. I'll build the fire back up." Hutchinson reasoned before shaking his head and crossing the small room to the fireplace where he crouched down to place some logs on it. "Hey!" He called over his shoulder.

"Hey what?" Starsky couldn't stop the snippy response.

"Look for firm, patches of white on your skin, it might be frostbite and we'll need to take care of it." The Minnesotan apparently decided to ignore Starsky's surly attitude as he carefully stacked a few logs on the small fire, grabbed a poker and carefully jabbed at the embers, making them crackle and snap. Flames began to eagerly lick the added fuel. Hutchinson put out his hands to warm them by the growing fire.

For several long seconds Starsky stared at the back of the blond's neck. An unaccountably angry, annoyed feeling was growing from somewhere deep inside. _Who does this guy think he is? Ordering me around! This ain't the army._ He crossed his arms over his chest, defiant. "Who do you think you are? My mother?"

Starsky watched as Hutchinson's back stiffened, he turned on the balls of his feet, still in a crouched position. A bewildered expression crossed his companion's face. "I think I'm your friend and I know I'm worried about you."

"Why?"

"Why am I worried or why do I think I'm your friend?" Hutchinson's voice was low and soft as a small vertical furrow appeared between the taller man's eyebrows and his eyes expressed apparent confusion.

Not wanting to answer either of those questions, Starsky pivoted away and headed for his duffle of clothes. He grabbed the bag, slammed it in onto the nearby table and grabbed for the zipper. His fingers could barely move. He stared down at them, for the first time since their mad dash to the cabin feeling how cold and stiff they were. "Dammit!" Frustrated, he grabbed the duffle and flung it across the room where it smacked the wall with a satisfying thump before hitting the floor.

"What's wrong?"

The question was quietly asked in that annoyingly soft voice. Starsky kept his back to Hutchinson. "Nothin'." He looked down at his stiff hands and worked at flexing them.

A hand landed gently on his shoulder and Starsky quickly shrugged it off and wheeled around to face him. "What is with you, man?" He stabbed the taller man with a glare that had made many a man bolt for the nearest exit. Only Hutchinson didn't move, though a rather sad, hurt look crossed his face.

"S-sorry. Look, I just want to help you. Let me see one of your hands, please?" Hutchinson put one of his own, palm up.

"Why?" _Dammit! Can't the guy take a hint_?

"I wanna check your fingernails for dirt." The blond snapped.

Starsky snorted humorlessly.

"You couldn't move your fingers enough to unzip the bag. If the frostbite is bad enough, you could lose your fingers. But that looks more like frost nip, which isn't as bad. Don't rub them. Rubbing frozen tissue does more damage as the ice crystals tear the flesh. We'll give your hands a soak and you'll be right as rain." The soft reasoning tone was back.

Concerned, Starsky looked down at his fingers, they were sort of blotchy and a little waxy looking. "How do you know what to do?"

"Before I went to Bay City, I had Pre Med here at the University of Minnesota, so I've had some training. Plus I grew up here. Knowing what to do for cold injuries has been bred into me for generations." Hutchinson flashed Starsky a grin.

"You're a regular Boy Scout, huh?"

The taller man chuckled. "Regular Sea Scout, you mean."

"Whatever." Starsky shrugged, not interested enough to ask for clarification. Knowing inconsequential details about someone's past was just an unwelcome burden.

Hutchinson's smile slid off his face as he signed and resignedly waved Starsky over to the crackling fire. "Have a seat near the fire, Chatterbox, I'm gonna put a sweater or three and get some water. Be right back."

Moodily Starsky snagged a chair with his boot and pulled it close to the warming glow. It did feel good to finally have access to heat after being out in that blast freezer called upper Minnesota.

He shivered; the room was still cold despite the growing fire. He briskly rubbed his arms and looked over to his bag, knowing he really needed to get that thick red jersey of his out of it. He kicked it over to the fireplace and sat back down, glaring at the zipper.

"From what I understand, you have to pull that little tab thingy to get it to open. Staring at it doesn't work, well, unless you're trying to use telekinesis on it." Hutchinson, now wearing a thick woolen sweater stood in the short hallway with a pot, a plastic bowel and a towel slung over his shoulder.

"Telekwhatsis?" Shooting him an annoyed glare, Starsky snapped. "Listen smartass, the only reason I haven't opened it is I can't get my fingers to cooperate." Light blue eyes measured him carefully. Starsky decided he didn't really like it. "What're you lookin' at?"

"I offered before to help you with your –_my_- coat. I'm just wondering if you're going to pitch another fit or let me help you this time."

Verbally sucker punched, Starsky dropped his eyes, looking down for a moment at Hutchinson's coat. The man had given him his coat. He nodded and allowed let the other man unzip and remove the coat. Hutchinson made a move to help with the sweater, but Starsky cut him off. "I can do it. I'm not five."

It was Hutchinson's turn to snort as he dug into the duffle to pull out the heavy orange sweater. He dropped on the table. "You sure act like it sometimes. Why can't you accept a little help now and then? You're always so… so… cold."

"Am not." Starsky's already simmering temper was starting to rise, as was the need to press the man's easily pushed buttons. He shucked his wet sweater and thermal top.

"Are too."

"Am not."

"Are too… this is getting us nowhere." The reasoning tone was back.

"Is too."

"Is not… Oh no, we're not doing this again." The stupid warning finger was back.

Starsky batted the offending digit away and put his hands on his hips. "You started it!"

"I did not… Dammit! Stop that!"

"Stop what?" Starsky shot the blond an innocent look.

"Oh for Christ's sake! I've had it with you! When the water gets warm in that pot, dump it in the bowel and soak your hands in it for about 15 minutes. When you're done, stick your head in there, it could use a good soaking too!" Hutchinson snapped. Then he wheeled about and stomped off to his room, slamming the door extra hard.

Grabbing the orange sweater, Starsky yanked it over his head and turned back to the flames and sat down by the fire. _Alone again._ _Good, 'bout time the guy takes a hint. Took him long enough, _he thought. This is what he wanted. What he needed. Staring into the fire, he watched it slowly eat away at the logs.

The wind, forgotten during their exchange once again made its presence known, choosing that moment to whip against the little cabin, creating a low, eerie moan as it whistled through tiny cracks in the caulking around the window. Loose panes in a few of the frames added rattling to the cacophony of sound. It made it sound as though the building was in its death throes.

Snorting at his weird train of thought, Starsky poured the warm water into the bowel. He stuck his hands in and hissed. He jerked his hands out, but forced them back in. The water wasn't too hot. Hutchinson had taped a thermometer to the inside of the bowel. The water was about one hundred degrees. He checked his watch and kept his hands in the prescribed fifteen minutes. When the time was up, he flexed his fingers and was relieved that they now moved easily.

_Must've only been frost nipped_. Mood somewhat improved, he got up, tidied up the room and when that was done, spun the chair around so he could lean his chest against the back. He crossed his arms over the top and rested his chin on them, staring at the warm, hypnotic flames, absentmindedly adding logs when others were reduced to ashes.

A long, low growl from his stomach finally pulled him out of his stare-down with the fire. He yawned and scrubbed a hand over his face. Starsky checked his watch. He'd been sitting there for hours, no wonder he was hungry.

He set about making a sandwich for himself when he realized he hadn't heard a peep out of Hutchinson. Then he shrugged. It didn't matter. The guy was probably brooding or sleeping, besides Starsky really didn't feel up to another confrontation. Yeah, he could and would go toe to toe –verbally or physically- with anyone. But lately, it was just too much of a pain in the ass to even try. _What the hell am I doin' here anyway?_ It was a question he'd found himself thinking a lot over the past year. _Why am I even here? I coulda have just stayed at my apartment. Sure as hell would have been warmer, that's for sure!_

Hutchinson.

It was his fault. Starsky plunked back down in the chair by the fire. Yep, it was all Hutchinson's fault. _Pushy sum'bitch_. _Always making a point to get in my face and ask me if I wanna go do somethin'. 'Hey, let's go out for a drink, hang out at the beach.' 'Let's go ice fishing in the middle winter during a flash-fucking-freeze!'_

Starsky angrily chewed his sandwich and glared into the flames.

"You in a b-better mood now?"

Startled by the soft voice, Starsky whipped around. "No." He snarled and turned back to the fireplace.

There was a long drawn out sigh. "W-we're probably going to be stuck here for a couple of days. Can't we just try get along?" There was a pleading note in the voice.

Starsky threw the remainder of his sandwich in the fire and shot to his feet. "Get along? Get along? I was gettin' along just _fine_ before you invited me to this _frozen hell hole_. Don't know _what_ I was thinking to have accepted your offer." He stomped over to Hutchinson, nearly bumping chests with him. Starsky had to give the man credit, when faced with his wrath, most men backed up a step or two. The taller man didn't budge. "I don't even like you."

A sad expression slowly made its way over Hutchinson's face. "That's too bad, because I like you."

His jaw dropped clean to the floor, he could feel it. He slammed his jaw shut as a bolt of white-hot anger shot clean through him and Starsky put both his hands out and shoved Hutchinson away. "Well don't."

"Why not?" The man returned to his spot, his hands down at his side, clearly showing he was not a threat.

Starsky wasn't buying it, his senses were screaming at him that there was a treat and it was standing right in front of him. He clenched his fists, ignoring the pain in his fingers. "None of your damn business."

"Whether you like it or not, I _am_ your friend. Just as you are my friend."

His anger already at a rolling boil, overflowed. His fist -of its own volition- swung out and connected with Hutchinson's jaw in a resounding, yet wordless rebuttal. _There!_ Starsky stood there, his breath coming in harsh, furious pants. "I don't need any _friends_."

Hutchinson rubbed his jaw, light blue eyes locking solidly, yet calmly on to Starsky's. "I've never met anyone who needed a friend more than you do. If you need to hit me again, go ahead." His hands once more dropped down by his sides, clearly making himself an easy target.

All of the air in Starsky's lungs left and the back of his eyes burned. "You don't know what you're talkin' about." The words were quietly spoken, but deadly serious. The urge to strike out and do some real damage was building.

The light blue eyes stayed soft. "I told you before that you were cold. You are. Right to the bone. You're so frozen inside. This anger…rage… it's your way of keeping everyone at arms' length. But you know something? You're not as frozen as you'd like everyone to believe. Something happened to you. Something so bad that made you think you needed to stop feeling. But deep down, you want a friend. Someone who will stick with you, no matter what you throw at them, be it punches or words-"

A derisive snort escaped. "Oh and you're that someone. Really? My friends are all dead. My other so-called friends turned on me when I got back."

The blond head nodded. "So, you're a Viet Nam vet, huh?"

Immediately on guard Starsky watched Hutchinson closely. "What's it to you?"

"You were drafted, right? You probably didn't really have a choice."

Starsky's unconscious anger and frustration over all of the crap he'd had to deal with since his return from Nam exploded. He turned on the nearest target - the only target- and went on the offensive. "Soooo…you didn't fight, did you? What'd you do? Burn your draft card, hide in Canada and now you're feeling guilty and wanna be friends with someone who was man enough to go to war. Or did mommy and daddy somehow manage to keep you out? That it?"

The pale face expressed shock. "W-what?" Hutchinson coughed. "N-no! I-I…No, I didn't go. But that's because-"

_Ah ha! Got your number now, _buddy_! "_I don't need to know your reasons. It doesn't matter." Starsky turned on his heel and went into his room and it was his turn to slam a door shut.

A short time later there was a light rap on it.

"Go away!" Starsky scowled at barrier.

Hutchinson's voice was muffled by the wood. "I just wanted to say…'_On ne voit bien qu'avec le cœur. L'essentiel est invisible pour les yeux_.'"

Confused, one dark eyebrow made a break for Starsky's hairline as he stared at the door. "What the hell's that supposed ta mean?"

"It's French. Open the door and I'll tell you."

"So that's French for '_Open the door and I'll tell you_.'? You just told me, so now I don't have to open the door, chump." Starsky rolled his eyes. Dumb blond. There was a hollow sounding thud on the door. Starsky pictured the Hutchinson hitting his head against it.

"NO! Stop being obtuse, open the door and I'll tell you what it means."

"Not interested. Leave me alone." Starsky wedged the lone chair under the knob and plunked himself down on the twin sized bed. It was easier to take protesters and former friends who'd made it clear that they hated him and why, than it was to deal with some damn draft-dodger with guilt issues.

Now that he was calming down, he noticed how cold it was in his room and it was even closer to the fireplace than Hutchinson's room. How the hell had the man stayed in there for hours? He shrugged off the thought. It didn't matter. What did matter was that the Minnesotan had nearly gotten to him with all that talk about Starsky needing a friend. He sneered at the very thought.

The moaning of the wind was ever present and now that night was here, it had taken on an eerie overtone. It sounded almost like a grieving human at times.

_Oh boy Davy, your brain startin' ta get ta ya._ Starsky checked his watch. After a little over two hours, the room got too cold to stay in, despite the heavy blankets on the bed. So reluctantly Starsky stood up and unblocked the door. As he did that, he realized what a really dumb thing to do, blocking the door with a chair. _What am I afraid of anyway?_ _Certainly not some klutzy, gangly, draft-dodging blond guy._ Besides, he hadn't heard a peep out of Hutchinson since their argument.

Of course stepping out of the room might just trigger another one. He looked longingly at the bed. If it were warmer in here, he'd be more than willing to stay and get some sleep. However, despite the heavy blankets, he was shivering. And the long winter night promised to get colder. Reluctantly, he shoved his feet back in his boots and opened the door.

TBC


	3. Chapter 3

**Warnings:** Some curse words and brief -off screen- deaths.

To all: Thanks so much for taking the time to read and review! And Janet Brown, thank you for the reviews.

Special Thanks to: Kreek, Pony and wuemsel for enduring the seemingly endless rewrites and most importantly, for listening. You guys are the best. (((HUGS)))

**Frozen****  
Chapter 3**

Padding quietly the few feet to the main room that served as both kitchen and living area, Starsky looked around and shivered. It was nearly as cold out here as it had been in his room. _Hutchinson must have gone to bed and forgot ta bank the fire_.

Starsky checked his watch; it was only 5:33 p.m. and pitch-black outside. Shaking his head, he made his way to the fireplace and grabbed a poker, removing the grate to push the ashes around to see if there was any life left in them. He was rewarded with a dull, red glow. After adding some kindling and logs, he sat down in the chair he'd used before and watched the flames grow, keeping his blanket pulled tight over his head and shoulders to stay warm.

A quiet moan broke over the sound of the softly crackling fire, and Starsky's head shot up, eyes seeking out and then locking onto the source. Hutchinson was lying on the couch, hands tucked up under his chin, occasionally shivering. A book lay open over his hip, and an afghan lay crumpled on the floor, having obviously fallen off.

Remembering that Hutchinson had given him his coat, Starsky stepped over, removed the book, placed it on the coffee table, and put the afghan over him. It wasn't enough to stop the shivering, so he shrugged his own blanket off and tucked that around the sleeping man. _There, that's better._

Starsky picked up the book and looked at the title: "The Little Prince." _Huh, yeah, _little prince_ all right. Perfect book for Hutchinson to be reading. _

He opened the cover, and inside, scrawled in imperfect childish penmanship, were the words, "Property of Kenneth R. Hutchinson, age 8."Starsky flipped through the pages. It was obviously a book written for children, with short sentences and lots of pictures. "What's a grown man like you doin' reading crap like this?" he quietly asked the sleeping figure.

"It's not crap. You ever read it?" Hutchinson's voice had a mucous-laden undertone. Clearly he'd just woken up or was coming down with a cold.

_Huh, not sleeping after all_.

Starsky shot him a scoffing "are you nuts_"_ look and crossed his arms over his chest. He loved to read, but didn't feel the need to let anyone else know it.

"It's really a very deep book with a lot of levels to it. Sort of like 'Jonathan Livingston Seagull.' Sure, 'The Little Prince' is written for children, but there are thematic lessons that adults can learn from, as well," Hutchinson said defensively as he moved to sit up. His brow wrinkled as though he were in pain. He shivered again.

"Why don't you move closer to the fire?" Starsky stepped back to give Hutchinson some room to put his feet on the floor.

The blond gave it a try, but failed. "I don't feel so good."

Automatically Starsky reached out and put his hand to the other's forehead. "Huh, ya feel kinda cold ta me." He tucked the blanket back around Hutchinson's shoulders and put more logs on the fire. "Need anything else?"

Light-blue eyes measured Starsky closely, before Hutchinson responded, "I was reading the chapter where the little prince meets the fox. It reminds me of you."

Starsky sarcastically rolled his eyes, moved the coffee table and pulled the couch closer to the fireplace. Heading into the kitchen nook, he set about heating up canned soup. When it was hot enough, he poured some into a mug and took it over to Hutchinson. He nudged the prone man as he sat down on the edge of the fireplace's stonework. "Have some of this. It'll warm you up on the inside."

Eyelashes fluttered, the lids lifted and a pair of pale-blue eyes dizzily fixed on Starsky's before looking at the cup. "You're going to ruin your reputation as a grumpy loner."

"Not a chance. Drink it. It'll put hair on your chest." Starsky pushed the mug at him. "Besides, it's quid pro quo. You loaned me your coat; I'm giving you some hot soup."

Hutchinson fiddled with the covers. "And your blanket." There was now an assessing look in those eyes. For a long time, the two men simply stared at each other, before the blond spoke. "Quid pro quo, that's all this is?"

Starsky pulled back. "Yeah," he added with a stiff nod. "That's all it is." He offered the mug again and waited until Hutchinson pushed himself up into a semi-sitting position and wrapped both hands around it.

Hutchinson took a sip and hissed, "It's hot."

"My ma says soup's only good if it's hot enough ta burn your tongue."

"Careful, you're opening up a bit." Lids dipped low over Hutchinson's eyes, and the slow blinking and little bobs of his head indicated he was falling asleep again.

Starsky's defenses quickly snapped back in place with a silent bang. Hutchinson was right, but thankfully, he was also out like a light. Starsky breathed a sigh of relief, grabbed the mug out of the drooping hand to keep it from spilling, and took it back to the kitchen. He put it in the sink and ambled over to one of the windows to look outside.

There was a rustling sound, and in the reflection of the glass, Starsky watched as Hutchinson pulled the blanket over his head and turned to bury his face in the arm of the couch.

Cold wind hit the window, rattling it, and a stream of frigid air slipped passed the cracks in the caulk around the frame. Starsky's breath curled up around his face in a white plume. _Here I am, stuck in a cabin in the frozen middle of Nowhere, America, with a guy who reads "deep" children's books. T'rrific_. Mentally, he excluded the fact that he was a comic book fan who liked to watch cartoons and creature features and study South American art.

Soon the chill air got to be too much without his blanket. Starsky went to Hutchinson's room, got the blankets from off the bed and moved back to the fireplace to sit in the chair he'd used before, wrapping the comforter around him. The flames crackled and popped, the wind blew, and the building creaked. All and all, it was very boring.

He looked at the book, back to the fire, and then back to the book once more. Turning his head, he tried to find something else to do or read. There was the _Monopoly_ game on a shelf, along with _Stratego_, and a checkerboard. A lone dictionary, coated with a thick layer of dust, lay on its side.

_Boring_. Starsky idly drummed his fingers on his knees.

His eyes returned to the book. Heaving a heavy sigh, he got up and snatched it off the table. The pages were well worn, and a small, faded-brown thumbprint marked one lower edge, as well as the progressive pages. It looked as if young Hutchinson had been eating chocolate while reading the book and had left fingerprints on the pages, which faded until they were gone.

Starsky looked over the top of the book at his sleeping companion. He could almost see the tow-headed boy the man had once been. He shook his head to clear the image and, with nothing better to do, flipped back to the front and began to read.

He kept reading, and when he finished the chapter on the prince and the fox, he closed the book and looked thoughtfully over at the blond. He could see some parallels between the little prince and Hutchinson and, if he squinted really, really hard, a few between the fox and himself. He also thought about the cabin and the surrounding land, all owed by the Hutchinson family. Starsky knew that much land cost a great deal of money. And even though they were here, Hutchinson hadn't spoken of any plans to visit with his family. Interesting and revealing.

So, was this modern-day prince as lonely as the one in the book? He drummed his fingers on the hard cover as he gazed at his companion. That could explain why Hutchinson was always badgering him to hang out at the academy. It didn't matter. He didn't care.

A low groan interrupted his thoughts, and turning his head, he watched as Hutchinson kicked off his covers and sat up. With a glassy look in his eyes, his companion blinked owlishly, stood up and headed for the door. Small hanks of blond hair stuck up and out in all directions, stiffly defying gravity, making Hutchinson look like a small boy with a bad case of bed-head.

Starsky snorted at the thought before calling out to the wandering man, "Hey, where're you headed?"

The taller man said nothing, just grabbed the knob, turned it and pulled. When it didn't open, he gave it a yank. When that didn't work, he pulled harder, putting his weight behind it.

Starsky's brow crinkled in puzzlement, and he climbed to his feet, still watching Hutchinson, who seemed very determined to open the door. "Hey, dummy! You nailed it shut, remember?"

Hutchinson didn't act like he'd heard, just kept working the knob, his movements getting more frustrated and frantic as he kept trying. Finally giving a little sob, he sunk to the floor and began weakly hitting the door with a balled-up fist.

_Okay, this is really weird, _Starsky thought as he carefully moved closer, squatting on his haunches when he was a few feet away. He remained balanced on the balls of his feet, ready to react to any situation, unsure what was going on with Hutchinson.

The blond wadded up his hands and buried his knuckles in his eyes. His shoulders started shaking.

Starsky rocked back on his heels, thinking he might have just entered the Twilight Zone. "What's wrong with you? Hey!" He reached out and grasped a shaking shoulder in his hand. The skin under the fabric of the shirt felt very cold, and he jerked back his hand, looking at it. "What the hell?"

Starsky's mind skittered about for an answer, and bits of his army survival school training came back to him. Despite having recently been near the fire, Hutchinson had been outside in the freezing weather for about an hour, without his coat for about 15 or 20 minutes of that time, and then he'd been in his cold bedroom for a few hours. Hypothermia explained everything: the coolness of his skin, not answering questions and the blond's strange, childlike actions.

_Oh, hell_. The man needed to get warm – and soon – or he'd die.

Starsky put a hand out, palm up and spoke quietly. "Hey, there; come on. Ya gotta go over by the fire and get warmed up. What d'ya say? Huh?"

The blond head bobbed slightly, and with childlike trust, Hutchinson reached out a hand and grasped Starsky's. It was cold. Grimacing, Starsky knew he couldn't leave the man in such a vulnerable state. He stood up and pulled Hutchinson with him.

Knowing what he had to do, Starsky drew the taller man to stand by the fire. Then, he gathered blankets and pushed the sofa closer to the fireplace. He put the cushions on the ground and urged his companion to sit on them, arranging two heavy blankets over Hutchinson's shoulders.

Starsky sat down on the now cushionless couch behind his cold companion. He wrapped the remaining blanket around himself and settled in, figuring Hutchinson would warm up in no time. With little else to do, the brunet grabbed the "Little Prince" book and continued reading where he'd left off.

Only moments later, Hutchinson laboriously clambered to his feet and began to remove his shirt.

Starsky scowled as he peered over the top of the book. "Hey! It's cold in here, dummy. Leave that on."

"Hot" was the only word the other man said as he continued to remove his shirt. He looked like a young child trying to pull off a sweater, managing only to get tangled in it. Hutchinson – frustrated – yanked fitfully at the twisted mess, arms half in and half out of the sleeves.

_Hot? Uh oh, something's still definitely off here. _Starsky dropped the book and got to his feet. "It's cold in here, not hot."

Light-blue eyes blinked blurrily back at him for a long moment, and the blond gave his head a few short shakes as though he were clearing his mind. Then, he firmly locked eyes with Starsky. "Don't do it." Hutchinson's words were soft. "Please, don't do it." He grabbed Starsky's shoulders and shook him.

It was Starsky's turn to be befuddled. "Uh… Don't do what?"

"K-kill yourself. You… you've got family and friends who need you."

Starsky blinked a couple of times. Obviously, Hutchinson was very confused. _Must be a lot more hypothermic than I thought if he's _this_ messed up. _"Um… okay, I won't. You win. Let's go sit by the fire where it's warm." He nudged the Minnesota native towards the fireplace.

Hutchinson didn't budge. "No, you _don't_ understand. Death is forever. If you k-kill yourself, you're dead. That's it; there's no coming back."

Despite his not wanting to involve himself with other people and their problems, the strange turn of conversation made Starsky a little curious, in spite of himself. Hutchinson was cold or sick (or both) enough to be delirious and confused to the point that he was thinking Starsky was someone else. And that person was – or had been – suicidal.

Starsky felt a very small crack open somewhere in the middle of his chest. Sad, yes, but still not his problem, he told himself firmly. "C'mon, let's sit by the fire, and you can tell me all about it."

Light-blue eyes struggled to focus on his. "You gonna listen to me this time?"

_This time? Aw, hell._ "Sure." _I don't wanna know about this; I don't wanna know about this; I _really_ don't wanna know about this! _his mind screamed, as Starsky forced away the urge to run. There was no place to go, and if he didn't do something, Hutchinson was in danger of becoming very ill or dying. _Hell…_

"I'm hot." There was a little-boy-lost note in the blond's voice. He leaned into Starsky's shoulder.

"Cold," Starsky corrected. "Now, let's go sit down." He forced himself to put his arm around Hutchinson's back and guided him to the fireplace.

While pulling the tangled sweater into place, the back of his knuckles brushed the man's torso. It was still so cool to the touch. Not a good sign, if memory served. Starsky placed more logs into the flames and encouraged the taller man to sit down in front of him, closest to the fire. Then, he proceeded to arrange the blankets around them. If he stayed in place, Hutchinson should be warmed up in no time.

Ensconced in the blankets, fire warmly blazing before them, Starsky remained silent, grudgingly acting as Hutchinson's backrest.

After what had to be only a few minutes, Hutchinson pushed the blankets away and moved to get up.

"Where're you goin'?" Starsky reached out and took a firm hold of Hutchinson's sweater.

The blond head swiveled about to face him, and Starsky watched as the light-blue eyes batted, slowly registering that someone was there.

"I have to stop you." The words were a whisper. Hutchinson's arm twisted, breaking Starsky's hold on the sweater.

"Um, stop me from what?" Starsky was pretty sure he knew the answer to that, but with Hutchinson delirious or delusional from the hypothermia, it was impossible to tell what was going through his mind right now.

"K-killing yourself."

One hand reached out toward Starsky's shoulder, and he reflexively jerked back away from it.

Hutchinson's hand dropped, and his face fell. "Christopher." The name came out as a pained gasp.

"Hutchinson, I'm not Christopher. C'mon, sit back down by the fire." Starsky slowly got to his feet, concerned.

At the sound of his name, Hutchinson gave his head a little shake, the blond hair glinting orange-yellow in the firelight. "No." Confused eyes locked onto Starsky's. "Cold. Oh, so cold… ice cold. Frozen. Gonna die… cold… Be d-dead soon." He stumbled away toward the door and turned the knob. It moved easily in his hand, but the two-by-four that was nailed across it held firmly. He grabbed the board with both hands, braced his foot against the door and yanked, hard.

Alarmed, Starsky rushed over to Hutchinson's side. "Whoa, wait. Where're ya goin'? Huh?"

"Got to… go… No time..." Hutchinson muttered. Some words were understandable; others were not.

Shaking his head, Starsky got a grip on the other man's arm, encouraging him let go of the board. "Come with me."

Hutchinson locked his knees and refused to budge. He kept staring at the door, his expression a mixture of confusion and determination. "No… I've got to go. No one else knows. Can't see it." The blond head shook and then dropped. "No one else sees it." The words were a guilt-ridden, heartbroken whisper. "Just me. I've got to save him."

"I see." Starsky didn't see at all, but Hutchinson was delirious and likely had no clue what he was rambling on about or where he was going. A small lump struggled to form in Starsky's throat. Ruthlessly, he forced it away. _I'm only doing this to keep him from freezing to death. This has nothing to do with, well… anything else. Period._ _I can help people without actually giving a rat's ass about them. That's why being a cop will be a good thing. _

Hutchinson stood stiffly in his arms for the longest time.

Starsky was about to let go, when the blond head dipped down, the forehead coming to rest on his shoulder. Starsky's arms came up, and Hutchinson hugged him back. Soon, the blond's shoulders began to shake, and tears rained down. "I'm so s-sorry… sorry. I was t-too late."

Starsky hugged harder, as that damned lump came back. How many times had he been too late in 'Nam? Hutchinson clearly was reliving a time when he'd arrived too late to stop whatever had happened. It was a pain Starsky was all too familiar with – one he never wanted to feel again. So he had closed himself off. Shut down. Became cold.

_Shit!_

Was Hutchinson reliving something that happened because he sensed Starsky's inner cold? Why would anyone open himself up to that kind of pain again? Why? Starsky shook his head and quickly tightened the loosening lid on his emotions. It didn't matter. None of it did. What _did_ matter was warming Hutchinson up. "C'mon, ya big lug. Let's go sit down."

Hutchinson's teary eyes blinked soulfully for a few seconds, before he bobbed his head.

Starsky swept an arm over the blond's shoulders and swung him toward the fire again. After bundling back up, he watched the fire and dropped his arm down. Hutchinson started to gather himself back up, and Starsky, realizing the other man was trying to stand up, put an arm around him. Hutchinson's shoulders slumped, his muscles uncoiled, and he leaned against Starsky.

Understanding hit Starsky: As long as he kept in contact, Hutchinson stayed put. He nodded to himself. It made sense, sort of. His companion was addled by the hypothermia and wasn't thinking straight. He also seemed determined to save someone, possibly this Christopher he'd mentioned earlier.

Starsky rested his back against the couch and pulled Hutchinson with him, wrapping both arms loosely around the cool upper body. _T'rrific. I'm a human blanket. Ma would be so proud_, he thought derisively.

In a childlike action, the blond head soon tucked itself under Starsky's chin, and with a quiet sigh, Hutchinson drifted off to sleep. Starsky groaned, rolled his eyes, gritted his teeth and rearranged the blankets, tucking them in all around. Then, he settled in for a long wait. Hutchinson's body was still much cooler than his own, and he shivered with the cold.

Starsky could feel his body's heat being sucked up by Hutchinson. It was an odd sensation. Hell, the whole thing was weird! Experimenting, he began to remove his arms from around his companion, only to have him fuss and move around.

The blond reminded Starsky of a fussy, teething toddler he'd watched once while his girlfriend got ready for their date, just before the sitter arrived. So, he knew he was there for the duration. But if he could hold a fussy toddler and get that baby to nod off, he could do the same for a freezing grownup… He hoped. Besides, Hutchinson was in true need of being held, since in his diminished physical and mental state, he could easily wander off and freeze to death – a very bad way to die, in Starsky's book.

It took a while, but eventually he managed to feel comfortable holding the hypothermic Hutchinson. And, after some more time, the blond warmed up and Starsky's own shivering stopped. Awkwardly reaching over the top of the man, Starsky snagged more logs and put them on the dying flames. Freshly fed, the fire would be hours before it needed more. Now there was nothing else to do but wait until Hutchinson recovered.

Or got sicker… or died. Starsky clamped down on those negative thoughts, but he was unable to stop the flood of unwanted memories of Vietnam, reminding him of his failure to save friends who had bled to death in his arms. The smell of the long-gone blood packed his nostrils, along with its nauseating, coppery scent. His stomach clenched, and bile rose high in the back of his throat, the vile taste filling his mouth. The sound of a firefight echoed in his ears.

He clenched his eyes shut, where acrid tears tried to burn their way out of the black hole where he'd stuffed his emotions. "Stop!" he hissed.

As if sensing Starsky's turmoil, Hutchinson shifted slightly and clung to him. Panting to get his feelings under control once more, the brunet awkwardly patted the blanket-covered back. "It's okay. I'm here." The words felt strange to say, yet also impossibly right. Somewhere deep inside, Starsky sensed a small change take place, as something shifted, broke loose and tumbled away, like a pebble off a cliff's face.

He shook off his puzzlement and brushed a fallen blond lock away from his companion's fluttering eyelids. Having nowhere else to rest his hand that wasn't touching the man, Starsky placed it on the slowly rising and falling back… and something else inside tumbled down, joining the first bit.

He shifted around, arranging them both so they could lie down, since his butt was beginning to fall asleep. Hutchinson mumbled fussily at the movement. After few moments, though, the blond seemed content to lean against Starsky and absorb the heat like a dry sponge soaks up water.

The wind rattled the glass in the windows, reminding Starsky of the bad weather outside. The moaning wind, creaking boards, soft breathing, and snaps and pops of the burning wood served to remind him that he was a very long way from warm Bay City.

He looked down at his unconscious companion. "I would never have wished this on ya, ya know, but I never asked for your coat. You insisted, and now look at the mess you're in. And ta top it off, you're stuck here with me. I should have told ya that I can't be friends with you, because you'll either die or turn your back on me, just like everyone else has."

_True, but being alone sure sucks_. Starsky blinked at the unwanted stray thought and pushed himself into an upright position again. _No. Alone is safe. No one can hurt you if you don't care about them or anything else. _

Clamping down on his wayward thoughts, he wished for a lot of beer to silence the wind, which had started to sound like the whispers, moans and groans of long-dead fellow soldiers.

_Beer!_ Starsky bounced up, grabbed a six pack from the kitchen area and took it to where Hutchinson lay sleeping. He then sat back down, pulling a blanket about his shoulders, and cracked a can. Staring moodily into the flames, he began to drink.

Several beers later, he started to talk to his unconscious companion. The booze had freed him from his inhibitions and reservations, and Starsky spilled his guts about everything that had happened to him before, during and after 'Nam. He only stopped talking long enough to check on Hutchinson, who –thankfully – was still out of it.

"There wash thish one time, we were on patrol through a village. This little boy rushes up outta nowhere and grabs onto Tony Nelson's leg and hugs him. The kid had a grenade. Th-they… blew up. It injured sheveral *_hic*_ of our guys." Starsky snuffled once and wiped an arm over his eyes before continuing. "'Bout a week later, thish little girl runs toward us. Lt. Kevin Harness shot her before she got too close. Turns out she wash gonna ask us for medicine for her sick ma. Kevin ate a bullet that night."

Starsky felt his companion grow restless during his story and Hutchinson reached out a hand from under the covers, mumbling incoherently. To calm him, Starsky grabbed the twitching fingers and rested his free hand on the man's shoulder. "Ssh… S'okay. Jus' go back to shleep."

After Hutchinson settled down again, Starsky talked until his voice cracked with tears and he ran out of words. It felt good to tell someone about the horrors and pain he'd seen and experienced – especially someone who was unaware and would never remember anything about what he'd said. There would be no sidelong, pitying looks, no sneers or jeers. It was cathartic.

When he was done, Starsky lightly patted the blond head. "You're a _*hiccup*_ good lishener," he slurred drunkenly as he drifted off to sleep.

XXXX

He wasn't sure what woke him, but it could have been the bad feelings of a pounding head, gurgling stomach and desert-dry mouth. Starsky groaned and held his splitting head in his hands to keep it from shattering. As he lay there, he grew certain that something was… _off_.

Something was missing. Something important. He could no longer hear the wind whipping outside.

He shot to a seated position and nearly lost the remnants of his liquid supper. When the queasiness subsided a little, he pried his eyes open and looked about for Hutchinson. His companion was no longer lying near him, like he had been last night. Panic kicked in. _T'rrific. Way to go, Dave. You drink yourself stupid, and you lose track of a sick man. _

Angrily, he shoved his hangover aside and pushed the blankets off. His eyes darted about the room until he spotted a blanket-bundled Hutchinson sitting a couple feet away with his back against the couch, looking quite lucid and much healthier than yesterday. Pale-blue eyes quietly assessed him, before a knowing look broke over Hutchinson's face.

"You're finally up. I was just thinking about getting up to make something to eat. How about eggs, sunny side up, and sausage?" He gave Starsky a wry, knowing smile.

Starsky held his stomach, as a wave of nausea washed over him at the thought. "Ugh! No – thank you! Um…How're you, ya know, feelin'?"

"Better. I think I need to thank _you_. I was pretty out of it, but I get the feeling you saved my life last night."

Instantly uncomfortable, Starsky stood up. He stepped over to the nearest window and moved the curtain aside, peering out to see a bright and shiny, white world. Small puffs of wind gently blew wisps of snow off the tops of the high drifts that surrounded the little cabin. He shrugged his shoulders. "Not really. I owed you. You gave me your coat yesterday, so… uh… I guess we're even."

Behind him, he heard Hutchinson sigh quietly. "It's not about being even. It's about being friends. I heard you talking last night. I remember you telling me about Tony and someone named Kevin."

Starsky paled, and his hands gripped the curtains tightly. In his drunken state last night, he'd blabbed and told Hutchinson about them. _Baby killers! Murders!_ The voices rang once again in his ears. _God! And now Hutchinson knows the truth. Why did I start drinking last night?_ Inwardly he cringed, then tensed and waited for the hostility and ridicule to begin.

Hutchinson continued, "I have to tell you something. Just please listen to the whole story before you say anything. I had a cousin. His name was Christopher. A couple of years ago, he was drafted and served 18 months in Vietnam. When he returned, he wasn't the same. He couldn't – or wouldn't – talk about his experiences. The only thing he'd say was that it 'was a bad scene.' Chris closed himself off, froze everyone around him out."

Starsky slowly turned back around and met Hutchinson's eyes.

"We – his family and friends – let him. We figured he'd snap out of it eventually, so we gave him space. We honored his choice. We left him alone, didn't bother him. Sometimes I could see something was tearing him apart, piece by piece, but figured I'd just wait for him to open up, and I'd be there for him. Then, one night he called me and said he wanted to say good bye. That's when I knew just how much trouble he was in. I broke the speed limit driving to his apartment, and I busted down the door."

The blond's features grew strained, and he paled as he wiped a hand down his face. "H-he'd hanged himself. It was awful… His tongue –" Hutchinson cleared his throat, grimaced and blinked rapidly several times before continuing, "He left a note."

_Oh, crap._ "What'd it say?"

"Basically, that he'd wished someone would have stuck with him and cared enough not to be pushed away."

Their eyes locked for what felt like a long time. A sick feeling that had nothing to do with being hung over washed over Starsky. _Oh, hell_. _I remind him of his cousin_. "You're wasting your time, you know. I don't plan to suicide. Not now, not ever. Death is permanent."

Hutchinson said nothing, just looked at him. The silence stretched out into several long minutes.

Starsky broke eye contact first, briefly glancing away before reconnecting and quickly changing the subject. "What do those French words mean? The ones you said yesterday."

Now, it was Hutchinson's turn to break contact. He stared down at the book, "The Little Prince," that lay on the coffee table. "_On ne voit bien qu'avec le cœur. L'essentiel est invisible pour les yeux_. It roughly translates as 'It is only with the heart that one can see rightly; what is essential is invisible to the eye.' Um, it sounds kind of dumb now." He shrugged sheepishly. "It's just that you reminded me of Chris in so many ways. He was emotionally frozen, just as you are. I-I was worried you'd end up… like that. I guess I should've known better. I'm sorry – about everything."

Hutchinson climbed a bit unsteadily to his feet, blankets dropping to the floor. He weakly kicked them away as he shuffled toward his bedroom.

Starsky watched the retreating figure until he heard the soft click of the door closing. Turning back to the window, he gazed thoughtfully at the white, cold and desolate world outside. Hutchinson's words reminded him of a poem he'd read years before, about a group of stranded people who could have saved themselves by helping each other. But they hadn't. They had frozen to death, not from the cold without but from the cold within.

He took a deep breath and slowly released it. Straightening, he pushed away from the window, walked to the closed portal and gave it a firm knock.

The door opened, and Hutchinson, with a wary, yet quizzical expression, looked at him.

Starsky thrust his hand out. "Dave Starsky."

The taller man blinked and then firmly clasped his hand. "Ken Hutchinson."

Starsky shook his head, smiled and said, "Hutch."

_Not **THE END**, just the beginning. _

Author's note: The poem Starsky was remembering is: **_THE COLD WITHIN _**_By James Patrick Kinney_


End file.
